


The Beauty in Bitterness

by meadows_of_prose



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, M/M, Multi, Physical Abuse, Romantic Soulmates, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:02:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28338138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meadows_of_prose/pseuds/meadows_of_prose
Summary: Prompt: FrUK soulmate AU where everyone gets a list of their soulmate's five worst qualities inscribed on their arm, unseen to anyone but themselves. For the 2020 Hetalia Secret Santa Exchange.
Relationships: England/France (Hetalia), France/Scotland (Hetalia)
Kudos: 42





	The Beauty in Bitterness

“Francis, _stop!_ ”

Arthur wakes, abruptly, to the sound of yelling and something breaking in another room.

If not for him recognising the sound as bone china he might’ve stayed in bed, but Kirkland Manor is old and full of things too valuable to let fall into the path of whatever argument is currently occurring within its walls.

He isn’t one to pry into his brother Alistair’s relationship, but both he and Francis are easily emotional and will often vent to him about all their issues. Consequently, he more often than not has a decent grasp of how things are going for them.

Presently it isn’t going so well.

This worries him. As irritating as the man can be he cares about Francis, wants the very best for him, and with each new day he is beginning to think that best will not be found in Alistair's arms. Soulmate marks be damned, he finds it hard to believe they are fated to be together.

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Arthur grabs his green dressing gown where he’d left it draped over the chair and throws it on. The item looks almost as old and worn as he, but urgency takes priority over fashion.

The journey from his own bedroom to the family parlour is a short trip, but things have escalated even by the time he arrives.

He’d gone there with the intention of delivering a lecture and salvaging what he could of the broken item, but the chaotic sight that befalls him dashes those thoughts in an instant.

His beautiful vase, a gift from Kiku almost a century ago and decorated in imari pattern, is shattered on the floor in a thousand pieces.

Even more distressing than that is the sight of Francis, whom Alistair has pinned against the wall by his shoulders, presumably in an attempt to keep him still so that they can talk. “What do you want from me!? We can’t keep doing this, I-”

The sight of Arthur in the doorway causes the room to fall silent for a few moments, but soon enough a whimper escapes from the Frenchman’s lips and the façade is broken. Alistair releases him.

Francis shoves past them both to get out of the room, tearful, before Arthur can get even one word out of his mouth.

Sickness is heavy in his stomach.

He stands again in silence for a few long moments, watching as his brother steps back to lean against the wall, crunching over broken china with every step. Just as before, it doesn’t last long.

“What the fuck do you want!?” Alistair spits bitterly, and though he has tried to hide it Arthur hears the emotion in his voice. The defeat. And yet, there seems to be no regret.

They’ve had arguments before, but not like this. Not so intense or so violent.

It shouldn’t be possible, but Arthur knows that they are finished with each other.

He becomes lost in thought standing there, considering the implication of it all, but soon hears a door slam and a heavy sigh from behind one of the doors in the Parlour.

When he looks up again, he is alone.

* * *

Francis is sulking, which isn’t a particularly rare occasion.

Arthur has made him breakfast, which is an immensely rare occasion.

He finds him in the dining room after the argument, collapsed in a chair with a glass of red wine leftover from the previous night. A glance at his phone tells him it is only half past eight in the morning, so he does all he can to quickly set the situation to rights. For once he is willing to accept Francis’ usual critique of his food if the man will agree to eat it.

The gesture is so rare, apparently, that as he sets the plate laden with food on the table Francis raises an eyebrow.

“Is it poisoned?” He wonders, giving an egg a suspicious poke with his fork. The runny yolk he’d cooked to perfection promptly bursts, prompting Arthur to tut in irritation. What a waste. He bites his tongue to hide the anger.

“No.” He graces the question with a reply, knowing the other's suspicion will only increase if there is silence.

It isn’t enough, however, as Francis only continues to poke at the food, furrowing his brow in dismay.

“Oh for God’s sake.” The Englishman tuts, reaching across and tearing off a piece of egg with his own fork, which he stabs through the middle and promptly shoves into his own mouth. Admittedly, it's delicious. Rich and creamy, cooked with butter instead of oil the way he knows Francis likes.

The proof pleases Francis, and though his eyes are red and his cheeks marred with tear tracks, he smiles just for a moment. The expression fades away and soon enough he is tucking into his breakfast, eating with fervour as well as his usual elegance. Arthur observes that he has already dressed for the day, wearing a cornflower blue linen shirt and grey slacks. He averts his gaze from the creases at each shoulder, evidence of Alistair's outburst. Overall it's a nice combination, and one he can't help realise brings out the man's eyes.

For once, there is none of his usual culinary critique.

In fact, except for the sound of cutlery moving against Francis’ plate, there is silence once more. Arthur doesn’t make himself anything for breakfast because he is far too preoccupied to eat. Far too unsettled with the knowledge that things are finished between Francis and his brother, and far too worried about what that means for them all.

“So it’s over?” He questions bluntly, but the words are far too heavy in his mouth to just let them sit there. He needs confirmation.

“It’s over.” Francis doesn’t look up from his plate. His words are plain, lacking any emotion other than neutrality. He has cried himself uncaring, after all.

“Okay. Right… fucking hell.” Arthur sighs, considering. “So what will you do now?” It seems madness for Francis to not have a soulmate. Out of them all, he is the man of love, the one who is always in a relationship of one sort or another. When he’d found Alistair Arthur had thought that was all over.

“Now?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll keep looking, I suppose. In time. What else can I do?”

“Well, you… you could go back to him.”

“What!?” Francis looks deeply offended at this. “After everything he’s done? He-” Here the man stops, taking a breath to calm himself. “I don’t want to go back to him. He... he isn't my soulmate.”

Arthur doesn't want Francis to go back to him either. He’d never believed they were well suited for each other, but they seemed so happy during the times they weren’t arguing that he’d bit his tongue for fear of their retorts.

“Good.” He murmurs, rendering Francis so surprised that he has to ask for clarification.

"What?"

"I said that's _good_."

“But he's your brother. Why are you agreeing with me?”

“Alistair’s a difficult man. I don’t like the way he treats you sometimes, he’s… bitter, I suppose.”

Francis glares down at the writing on his right arm, rubbing his thumb over the second word. “ _Bitter_.” He spits. “How accurate. Well, I suppose he is a Kirkland. Your mother was the same when she wanted to be, and that's where you all get it from.”

Arthur bristles at her mention, the anger almost rising enough to throw his train of thought off entirely. It doesn’t, however, and he wades through the feeling enough to stay coherent. He refuses to let such blatant comments irritate him, not now. “...What did you say about him?”

Francis is still occupied with rubbing at his skin, but raises his eyes to meet Arthur’s at the question.

“I said he's a _Kirkland_.” He repeats. “You’re all bitter. Well, not darling little Peter, but,” He sighs. “Give it time. We shall have to watch him as he grows.”

You’re all bitter.

The words echo through his mind, and he realises just how true they are.

All of a sudden his thoughts turn to Alistair, and all the complaints the man has made in the past. Whilst he doesn’t know in detail the exact words written on his brother’s arm, he knows the words he uses to complain about Francis.

Complaints of him being too vain. Absorbed in himself, whining about his hair, clothes and makeup and complaining when they were wrong. But when they were right? Well, then he was arrogant. Blatantly in love with himself and unashamed to show it off. It came across as arrogance more than self-love more often than not, and Alistair tired of it.

Arrogant. Blatant. Manipulative. Vain. Whining.

Arthur looks down at his own arm, and there the words are. As if they’ve fallen out of his very head and imprinted themselves in swirly black ink over his pale, freckled skin.

By now he has forgotten all about the broken vase, about Alistair upstairs, or about what Francis really thinks of the breakfast.

“Francis.”

“Hm?”

Having gone back to eating, the Frenchman looks up with a mouthful of toast and eyes too blue, and all of a sudden Arthur’s heart feels like it will beat itself out of his very chest.

There is silence.

“What is it, Arthur?”

“...You’re vain.” He finally manages.

Francis nearly chokes. “I- _what?_ ”

“I said you’re vain.”

Francis just stares, wide-eyed, so Arthur continues.

“You are, aren’t you? More than... more than anyone else we know.”

“Why…” Whilst he does indeed look very offended, there is more to Francis’ expression. “Why are you saying that?” Curiosity. It’s in his voice and his eyes, and now Arthur can feel his heart in his throat. They have thrown insults at each other before, many a time, but not like this. Never like this.

What else is he supposed to say but the truth?

“You’re arrogant. And blatant. Manipulative too, and whining and-”

The words stop as he leans across the table and presses their lips together in a soft, chaste kiss, propelled by confidence that he can’t pin down the source of but thinks is likely pure adrenaline. Francis does not protest. There is no need for words anymore, because they can both already feel what Arthur is going to say.

But he says it anyway.

“And you’re my soulmate.”

As he breathes the words he knows in his heart that they are true, because Francis may indeed be all the things inscribed on his arm, but he is also so much more than that. He is kind and supportive and loyal, he is a shoulder to cry on and a light in the darkness. He is beautiful, with blond hair so bright and beautiful it glows and frames him like a halo. He is a blessing upon Arthur's life- he would not be here without him.

For as much as Arthur hates him, he realises, he loves him even more, in a way Alistair never could because he isn't supposed to.

Because Francis is his and he is Francis'.

Time itself seems to stop as their lips part, and Arthur isn't certain what will happen next. It doesn't seem possible, but what if he has miscalculated? Perhaps he will be slapped, pushed away, even kicked out of the house. Nevermind that the house is his very own- Francis is a force to be reckoned with when he is upset.

But none of that happens. Instead, he hears the Frenchman _laughing_. Not in mockery, but rather in an emotion he recognises as joy. As disbelief, because he must feel it too.

"And you," Francis breathes, still reeling from the shock of it all but pushing the words out anyway. "You are... are blunt and bitter, ever-so-cynical and downright obstinate, not to mention sarcastic." As he speaks he knows Arthur is right. These are words for him, not for Alistair, and the realisation makes his heart feel so much lighter than before.

"Yes," The sudden barrage of words returned to him are all negative, and yet they make him happier than he has been in a long while. "I suppose I am." Arthur chuckles, actually _laughs_ , happiness and disbelief in his voice all at once.

Reaching out, Arthur intertwines their fingers, pressing their arms together and letting unseen ink touch the words upon his own.

"I never knew before now that there could be any beauty in my bitterness."

He squeezes the hand wrapped around his own tight.

"Thank you, Francis."


End file.
